Cantareata Sansoneta
by Daryl Alenko
Summary: Sequel to Siren's Song. Arthur and Merlin are forced to deal with the fallout from Siren Song.


Title: Cantareata Sansoneta

Rating: M, language and violence.

Pairing: Merthur!

Summary: Arthur and Merlin are forced to deal with the fallout from Siren Song.

Author's Notes:

Thanks to everyone who reviewed Siren Song, and encouraged me to write more on the topic! Hope everyone enjoys and reviews!

The title for the sequel actually means Siren Song in Romanian.

I do not own the characters from Merlin.

Merlin awakes slowly. The sweet, cerebral haze of sleep scuffing up the hardened edges of his mind. Leaving him in the foggy bliss that allows him not to think. Remember. But all good things must come to an end, and so to must his ignorance.

His mind implodes. Every memory of being touched, poked, prodded, and ultimately running from Arthur's room spewing expletives that could probably get him put to death just as surely as the magic that is a part of him, crashes into his consciousness in a fiery crescendo of barbed hooks. They dig into the squishy, vulnerable flesh. Pull him apart and yet, rebuild him. Wreck and devastate him. Ground him to a reality he would give almost anything to escape. All of this, which feels as if it spans an eon, passes in mere moments. He sucks in a breath and before he can even exhale, his entire world has shattered and restructured itself.

He told Arthur .. oh gods, he told Arthur to go fuck himself after a night of handsy gits that couldn't understand he wasn't interested. Even UTHER, the man that would sacrifice him in a second for no particular reason, was harboring some kind of sexual attraction to him. In what existence did that make sense? No, scratch that. In what existence was that -FAIR-!? He wiggles beneath the aching crush of his flimsy blanket, knowing damn well that there is no reason for the threadbare strip of thin cloth to weigh so heavily on him. His mouth tastes like blood and salt, like vinegar and dusty linen, and his body aches with a deep seated pain that can only be achieved by near death. By the leeching of one's very being.

Once again, he tried to offer up his life and this is how he is repaid. The Prat Prince rears his ugly head in full bitch mode, and Merlin was left to flounder. Struggling to understand the hot pit of roiling, blinding FURY that had driven him to tell the asshole off once and for all. And now, he doesn't even have the reward of languishing in his righteous anger. No, instead, he is fighting off the darkness at the edge of his vision. The side effect of an impending panic attack. Because he feels -guilty-. Somehow, after everything that happened last night, HE feels guilty. Is it a royal trait? Something actually bred into the blood of those that claim divinity in ruling, to be able to make all of the peons around them feel the need to apologize? Fuck, it feels almost as if he should crawl out of bed, run to Arthur and -beg- the Prince to forgive him for telling the truth.

Bastard. Ass. Prat. Dollophead. ARSEHAT! He slowly works through the mental list of his favorite, most applicable insults for the man he sometimes thinks he has the right to call friend. Using this moment to ease the panic pinching at his poor heart. Crouching on his chest, making him feel childish and stupid. And yet, which part makes him feel that way? Is it the fact that he had finally proven fully human, and broken down against the abuses that the Prince hurled at him, as anyone eventually would? Or is it the part where he feels guilty for losing his temper? For proving to be no less infallible than anyone else?

His eyes snap closed, a deep part of himself foolishly hoping that if he cannot see, the panic will somehow abate faster. Without the visual of the darkness closing in, pinpricking his vision, it will no longer exist. A harsh bark of laughter cuts through the silence of early morning, ejected from lips still bitter with the taste of wine and magic. See, this is why Arthur is occasionally justified in calling him an idiot. Because he IS! Only an idiot thinks they will escape panic simply by ignoring it.

He digs his fingers into the edge of his impossibly heavy blanket, snatching it off his aching body with a practiced flick of the wrist. He doesn't even open his eyes to watch it flutter to the side, having to hope that it manages not to hit the collection of junk on his bedside table and send it scattering across the floor. He levers himself to a sitting position and immediately regrets it. Even with eyes closed, the sudden movement causes his head to swim. His brains seem to cast about, knock from one edge of his skull to the other, and he fights the need to sick up. Another note of how life is not fair; he has the worst hangover in history, and he had barely drank. He knows that it is the Siren's influence making it worse. The tendrils of sexual magic curling around his own magic, colliding with the vague remnants of two quickly drank cups of wine. Sloshing him. Mixing him up, leaving him feeling wrong in so many ways. His hands fall to his thighs and he groans when his sweaty palms encounter the twisted fabric of his trousers. Oops. He can even feel the welts of red-hot heat across his torso where his shirts worked up and cut into the pristine flesh.

Breath pants, soft and shallow, causing a few patches of vapor to puff from his lips as he fights to tug the fabric free of his torso. He tosses the material, hoping that it will offer some kind of cathartic release. Throw the balled clothing as he wishes he could throw Arthur. Another laugh, this one half hysterical. The last thing he wants to think about is Arthur, but how can he not!? Apparently, as if his indentured servitude to the jerk isn't enough, he has now been led to believe that he was BORN for the bastard. God, how is he supposed to handle that kind of information? No wonder he had lost it after every thing that had been said.

His life is meaningless unless he is fulfilling the destiny he was born to fulfill. The destiny that is nothing more than making sure ARTHUR'S destiny is fulfilled. It's not fair! It's not right! He IS magic, and it is meaningless unless used in connection with destiny. Another bubble of hysterical laughter begins, and he lifts his hands. Shoves a fist into his mouth to muffle the sound. The fingers of his other hand press against the left side of his mouth, and he feels his eyes try to roll back, into his skull, beneath his closed lids. Even when he's not present, Arthur has the ability to utterly ruin Merlin's life.

Slow, steady breaths. Breathe in, hold for 2, 3, 4, 5, exhale slowly. He shudders vaguely at the feeling of sticky saliva drying against his fist and finger tips, and he finally manages to wrest the appendages from his mouth. He makes the universal EW face, wipes the spit on his trousers and finally manages to force his eyes open.

Thank the Old Religion for small favors! The darkness no longer encroaches on his vision. He can see straight, see clearly, and he forces himself to scan every inch of his room. Before allowing himself to look down. He flinches. His features draw up in a pained wince at the bruises that litter his torso. Some of those seemingly easy, sexual touches had been far harsher than any observer, or indeed, those bestowing them, realized. He has been marked in so many ways. Even his backside aches from the hands that had grabbed so pathetically at him. He pushes himself to his feet, wincing as his trousers pinch and pull at his skin. Once he manages to work them off, kicking them toward the pile of discarded material, he moves to find something else to wear.

"I won't go back there." He snaps those words to the silence about him. Not sure who he thinks has suggested he will go serve Arthur this morning, but answering as if someone had. He yanks out his only other pair of trousers, tossing them onto his bed, before looking through the collection of threadbare shirts he owns, sighing. He knows that there will be an unexpected cold spell around the city and Castle, extending into the woods a ways, as the Siren's magic withdraws, and none of his usual clothes are really a good choice when it's going to be that cold. It's not as if he has a coat of any kind, either. He groans faintly and finally reaches in to grab something he would -never- own up to actually owning, if he didn't have to. There's no reason for a servant to have a fancy top of any kind, and yet, there it is. He probably would've turned right around and resold the thing, had it not been a present from a friend. Gwen, in fact.

He carefully lays the top on the bed, sighing softly before turning to survey it with a deep boned weariness.

The tunic top and under shirt are things of beauty, and for some reason, he hates that fact. The tunic is made of a rich, thick, deep blue fabric. Brass butterfly buttons clasp over the chest, and a brown belt is threaded with a matching bag. She had joked that the bag would be perfect for when Gaius sent him out to gather herbs. And suddenly, that seems like a perfect idea! He will carry himself beyond the city, so that he does not have to hear Prince Prat make fun of him for his attire. In fact, he can just out and out avoid the bastard. Yes, perfect plan!

He changes his smallpants and then pulls his trousers on, softly muttering further obscenities and disparaging words in regard to Arthur's character. He glares down at the top for a moment, before resigning himself to his fate. He carefully opens the tunic and grabs the undershirt, sliding it on. The long, slightly thin sleeves fall all the way to his palm, and he shivers a little as the luxurious material settles against his bruised and battered flesh. It somehow feels .. nice .. against his skin, and he is begrudgingly glad for owning it. His normal attire would've rubbed his abused flesh raw.

He takes a deep breath, and carefully pulls the tunic top on. The insulating fabric immediately blankets his body in heat and he lets out a happy little sound of delight. That he will never admit to making, thank you very much, so just don't even ask! As he carefully smooths the material down along his hips, he finds himself seriously questioning his sanity at the moment. Has Arthur finally sent him 'round the bloody bend!? Or maybe it's from the magic used to counteract the Siren as best he can? Either way, he has a feeling that it's going to be a long, trying day. He turns and steps toward his bedside table, yanking the single drawer open to pull free a dagger. It had been a gift from Lancelot, before the Knight was forced to leave Camelot behind. And no, Merlin will NOT refer to him as Ex anything. Lancelot is the very picture of a Knight and he will never think of his friend as anything less.

He slides the dagger into his belt, surveys his room one last time, and then steps out into Gauis' chambers. Upon finding his guardian asleep, he smiles and walks to the main table to grab a piece of parchment, quill and ink. He writes a quick message before he grabs a bundle of cloth to line his pouch with, and then heads out, into the Castle.

hr

His first stop actually makes Merlin a bit nervous. Because he is unclear on what the aftermath of the Siren's Song will be. Some stories allude to the victims blissfully forgetting what they have done under the influence, while other tales mention a sudden, undeniable awareness of their attractions. Merlin is afraid that the second will be true. Especially since he had been interrupting as much of the Song as he could.

He shudders at the thought of facing the King if he managed to remember the way he had panted after Merlin. Had tried to get a handful of Merlin's shirt to keep him there with him. Arthur had saved him, even if the accursed fool doesn't realize it yet. He's not sure he wants to tell him. Knows that he flat out doesn't want to talk to the man at -all- right now.

In fact, a plan is starting to form. He can be off for a few days gathering herbs, and he can give anyone in the Castle that find themselves still suffering an attraction to him, time for the remnants of Siren magic to pass. So, he stumbles on. Weaving in and out of the Castle hallways, taking the least traveled root from the Physician's Chambers, to the kitchen.

He stops outside of the doorway leading in. Takes a deep, careful breath, and steels himself for whatever possible trouble may be waiting for him. After all, it's not every night a heavy handed head Cook grabs you by the arsecheeks and squeezes hard enough to have left some rather severe bruises behind. To the point that it will be several days before he'll be able to sit comfortably. Once he is sure that he is wearing his best, neutral expression, he heads into the rapid hustle and bustle of the Castle Kitchens as they prepare breakfast.

" 'ere now, Merlin, 've not got the Prince's plate ready yet!" Cook calls out, just barely having caught sight of his face. Though there is none of her usual ire or annoyance when she is dealing with Merlin, and OH MY GOD! It suddenly makes perfect sense to the warlock! The reasons he always treated him with such a short temper, the fact that she could never quite look him in the eye! It was because she was disguising her attraction. He's not sure if he's flattered, or a bit put off. Oh, now what to do with this new tidbit of information!? Most days, it would make him blush and stammer a bit, and he would simply let the situation pass him by. But today .. oh, today is a new day. A different day. He smooths the material of his fancy threads and walks up to where she is working.

"Excuse me, Cook." He clears his throat, and the action causes her to look up on reflex. Her rounded cheeks light with a deep blush, and her eyes widen a fraction before her lashes flutter in surprise. She quickly looks down, hands shaking as she goes to finish placing some fresh meat pies on a plate. "I .. I know this isn't really allowed, but .. well, I'm not to be tending to Arthur this morning, madame." He actually allows for a gentle, sweet note in his voice as he says madame. She blushes deeper.

"In fact, I am to be gathering herbs for Gauis all day, which means I'll be beyond the city walls." Her eyes widen again and she actually lifts her gaze. She knew that quite a few people worried whenever Merlin went off, the Prince being one of them. Though there were so many more. She shifts uncomfortably, knowing that the Prince is going to be a right pain in the arse. And yet, she doesn't blame that on Merlin. No one was ever foolish enough to blame Merlin for Arthur's bad moods. In fact, most thought him a bloody SAINT for being able to put up with the young man.

"Say no more, lad. Just one moment." She reaches out to gently pat his arm before she turns to grab a large square of cloth. Merlin shifts his footing slightly, watching her put fresh, warm bread, wrapped cheese, three meat pies, and three apples into the cloth. After a moment of hesitation, she wraps two mini sweet pies and adds those as well, turning back to him. He beams happily as he takes it from her, sliding it into the pouch at his hip before he leans over the counter and presses a chaste kiss to her cheek. he can feel the heat of her blush.

"Thank you, Cook!" He beams at her once more before he turns and quickly exits the kitchens. He knows he doesn't have much time before Arthur will be up and demanding his own breakfast. So, he takes that time to slip outside of Camelot and decide which direction he wishes to go.

hr

Light streams in, and Arthur immediately decides that the sun is the bane of his existence as it's sultry rays burn across his closed eyes. He curses seven ways to sunday, his mouth drawing up in a sneer of anger as he forces himself onto his back. Away from the light. Away from the pain.

"MERLIN!" He screams the name into the morning light, snarling. Wishing to hurl abuses at his manservant for once again forgetting to do his job! Forgetting to draw the curtains before leaving for .. the night ... bugger! He jerks into a sitting position, eyes wide and frantic as he looks around the room. Takes in the upended table and chairs .. the broken wine pitcher and goblets .. the general mess he had reduced his chambers to when he had thrown his fit last night. Granted, he had felt justified at the time, given the way that his .. manservant .. had talked to him. Looking at it now, though, in the light of day? He realizes what kind of a monumental arse he has been, and he silently curses himself.

"Idiot .." The usual word is forced from parted lips with a tone of utter hatred, and yet, the label is not being hurled at the one it is usually saved for. Indeed, he would never call Merlin an idiot with such hatred. No, he refers to himself, just this once. With a mournful groan, aching limbs twist and churn, tossing the heavy blankets off as he rouses himself as best he can. The moment his feet touch the cold stone floor, he yelps in surprise. It is only once this visceral reaction has occurred that he realizes there is a heavy chill in the air. He inhales carefully, holds the breath, and then exhales carefully. Watching the tendrils of wet vapor as they dance through the air, clinging to his lips, pushing upward against his lashes. He shakes his head and forces himself to stand. Forces himself to ignore the cold for now.

After all, he has more important things to do. Starting with his room. He moves as quickly as he can, righting the furniture, picking up the busted pieces that cannot be mended and disposing of them. He works methodically, keeping his mind only on the task at hand, on clean up. That way, he doesn't dwell on the cold. Or, worse yet, Merlin. He hasn't the presence of mind, yet, to try and figure out what he is going to do or say to make things up to his .. friend. God, why the fuck is it SO HARD for him to call Merlin his friend!? He winces and carefully straightens the last chair, sighing.

All thoughts aside, seeing as he's still not really ready to deal with any of this, he calculates the general time, and realizes that Merlin probably isn't coming. He'd have been here by now, yes? He rubs his hand across his cheek and moves to yank open his wardrobe with a heavy sigh. He rummages through the his various kit, wrinkling his nose at some pieces, rolling his eyes at others. Merlin usually picked the perfect combos for the Prince to wear, and he finds that he hasn't the foggiest what kind of attire the day calls for. So, with a sigh, he snags on something that looks comfortable, remotely warm, and yanks it out.

Fifteen bleedin' minutes later, and he is fairly certain that Merlin deserves a blasted raise for how hard it is to get these damn clothes on. Shouldn't it be simple to put on a pair of black breeches, white tunic top belted at the waist, and his stupid brown coat?! He had messed up the ties on the shirt twice, nearly ripping them off in his frustration. He had put the coat on inside out, and now he is practically boiling with anger! At least his boots are something easy that even he can't mess up!

"Gods .. I miss the little fool." He huffs an angry breath as this revelation hits him with the strength of a mortal blow. Why the hell would he miss the idiot? The man messes every thing up! He gets into his mind, and .. and .. destroys every fact about himself that the Prince has ever held to be irrevocably true.

Fact 1: He is going to be a great King because he was -born- to be a bloody good King! Except .. that's bullshit, isn't it? Merlin has proven, directly and indirectly, that a King is born of their Action, not their Right. Arthur will never admit it, because Uther is his Father, but Merlin has proven several times over that Uther has failed in so many ways as a King. And somehow, for some reason that the Prince cannot even -begin- to fathom, the manservant is utterly, wholly, fully, and TRULY convinced that Arthur will be a great King. That unwavering belief is the only thing that has the power to humble him at any given moment.

Fact 2: He is born to privilege and it his -right- to utilize it whenever he wants, no matter the happenings around his kingdom. Before the day that Merlin stood up to him for abusing his manservant, he had utter faith in the truth of that statement. He was a spoiled ass that did not take NO for an answer. In fact, there was no one beyond his Father that had the -right- to tell him no. And then Merlin came along. Suddenly, his very own manservant had no trouble telling him no when he was being an arse, and it was .. again .. humbling. It wasn't enough to make him stop taking advantage of his position. Until the Unicorn. Damn that creature.

Fact 3: A King cannot rule without a Queen. This is a fact that his Father has drilled into his head since infancy. Ignoring the fact that Ygraine has been dead all these years, and Uther has never remarried. Ignoring the fact that plenty of Kings, and dare say Queens, have ruled without marrying. As of late, the young Prince has found himself bulking at the idea of marriage. He cannot envision a future in which he is married. It is too .. surreal and uncomfortable a prospect.

Merlin has also introduced some brand new, life altering Facts into the Prince's life.

Fact 1: There is far more to ruling a Kingdom than sitting on a throne, throwing tournaments, and generally calling yourself a King. Defying his Father to follow Merlin to Ealdor taught him that the people are the most important thing in a Kingdom. The hatred he still harbors for Cenred, for refusing to care enough to protect his own people, will paint Arthur's outlook for years to come.

Fact 2: Fighting is not always the answer. Gods, if any of the Knights heard him think something like that, they would immediately imprison him and tell Uther they suspected sorcery. But the truth is, Merlin is one of the most courageous people he has ever met, and the fool avoids conflict at all cost. In the old days, Arthur was sure a blade would solve any conflict. As if. No, Merlin taught him better.

Fact 3: No matter what the King has said .. no matter what laws Uther has enacted ... all magic is not evil. Words he will never breathe aloud if he can help himself. Because he has no idea if his Father would have him executed for his belief. Magic is not evil, only those that misuse it, are.

Fact 4: This is .. probably the hardest fact for the poor Prince to come to terms with. Because in the long run, it is the oddest of them all. Arthur Pendragon cannot imagine a future in which Merlin is not present, at his side. How fucked up is that!? He cannot see a future where he is married, but he also cannot see a future in which his friend and manservant is not somehow present in his life!

He groans, reaching up to twine his fingers in his bangs. Tugging and twisting the strands, almost reminiscent of the way Morgana had done so to Merlin's hair the night before. And that .. yeah, that brings with it a flood of imagine, emotion, and sensation that the young man is not equipped to handle at the moment. He jerks himself to his feet and strolls quickly for his door, yanking it open.

He snarls angrily at a passing servant. He considers ordering the man to light a fire in his chambers, but decides against it. If the chill persists, he will light one himself. After he goes and gets his breakfast. Because, for some reason, he pays his idiot of a manservant to fail completely at his duties.

hr

RAMPAGE! That is the single, best word to describe Prince Arthur's behavior at the moment! He is on a bloody rampage through the Castle, spitting obnoxious demands at any servant that has the misfortune to stumble across him. And why, do you ask, is he acting the part of such an insufferable Prat? The same reason he -always- does, these days; Merlin.

The midday meal is quickly approaching, and Arthur has yet to see hide or hair of his manservant, and his level of anxiety has ratcheted up so many levels, that he can barely take a breath without snapping angrily at someone. Or something. He's cursed his sword belt three different times for not fitting properly.

"Do I look as if I care!?" He snaps at a young woman that has been trying to say something to him for the past five minutes. He only vaguely recognizes her as a friend of Gwen's. The woman had attended Morgana once or twice when Gwen wasn't available. So, what sin has she committed, to be verbally lashed by Arthur? Nothing more than a request that he visit Morgana, of course. Because in the spoiled Prince's mind, nothing is more worthy of his ire than anything connected with his Father's ward.

"B-but Sire, please .. Lady M-Morgana asks but for a m..ome..nt of your time." She stumbles and falls through her words, hands twisting in the fabric of her dress skirts, as if the action is somehow anchoring her. Maybe it is giving her the strength to put up with his asinine behavior.

"Must I repeat myself? The answer is still no! Is it really so hard for any servant in this blasted castle to understand a simple word such as no!?" He snarls the words, turning away from the woman in utter disgust. Her eyes widen, brimming with unshed tears, her hands tightening so heavily in her dress skirts that her hands shake, her knuckles go white.

"About as hard as it is for a Prince to treat anyone with an ounce of blasted respect, SIRE!" She snaps at him, her mouth setting in an angry line of white as she stares at him. He draws up short, turning to face her. Mouth agape in an expression of surprised bewilderment. "You are a bully and a jerk, Arthur Pendragon! I am merely doing my job you spoiled brat, and you are berating me! Half the servants, not to mention a good bit of the Nobles in this Castle, cannot understand -why- Merlin puts up with you! That boy is a bloody SAINT! And I don't care if you throw me into the stocks, or have me lashed, or whatever! But I honestly hope poor Merlin comes to his senses one day and leaves you! He deserves happiness, not the crap you put him through!" She turns then and runs headlong down the hall, crying softly as she rushes back toward Morgana's chambers.

Arthur continues to stare, dumbfounded, at the spot where the maidservant stood moments before. Trying to process her words. Trying to understand what has just happened. Her rant is so foreign, so unusual, that his brain is actually unwilling to make heads or tails of the conversation. Okay, parts of it make sense and ring so true that he has the good grace to feel chagrined for his behavior. Yes, he can be a bully and a jerk. Yes, he's a prat. Merlin has correctly called him one often enough.

The parts that do not compute; the servants discuss Merlin and his service to the Prince!? Even -NOBLES- have talked about it!? But the one that stings the deepest. The one that causes his hands to crush against his thighs in tight fists, his chest to heave with labored breath, as if he has run a bloody marathon? She hopes that Merlin will leave him!? Where the fuck does she get of butting into his business with her insane opinion!? And how the fuck could she even fathom the idea that Merlin would leave him? Er.. wait. Why does that sound far more intimate than it should? As if she means leave Arthur and not his position as the Prince's servant. This shakes him to the core. It feels ... oh gods, it feels as if something deep inside has snapped, frayed .. shattered beyond repair and he should not even be able to stand up straight. Let alone slowly turn and walk silently down the hall toward his room.

Even as he is coming undone with each step .. even as his breathing falls into further labor, though blissfully silent, he drags himself to his chambers and manages to hold some small sliver of HOPE that he will open his blasted door and the big eared fool will be there. Cleaning. Polishing his sword and armor. SOMETHING to indicate that all is forgiven and forgotten. That Merlin has no bloody intention of leaving. Going back to Ealdor, or anywhere else for that matter! If Merlin quits ... that, Arthur might have a prayer of surviving. Because the idiot would still be in Camelot. He would still be living in the Castle with Gaius, serving as his apprentice and delivery boy. It would mean that Arthur could still see him. Be around him. All of that soppy, sappy crap. But, if Merlin leaves? The Prince can't find the strength to deny that he would be worried sick. He would spend every damn day wondering if another bandit has tried to hassle Ealdor. If Merlin has done something foolish to get himself killed.

He reaches up, his hands scrabbling at the laces of his tunic for a moment before he fumbles the door of his chambers open. He holds his breath, alternately wondering if he should actually pray, but there is no time. He takes several steps into his chambers, realizes immediately that the air is stale and unstirred, and knows that Merlin is not there.

That thing deep inside? That had snapped? It snaps all over again, becomes a heavy, pained weight deep in his chest and Arthur has no fucking clue what he can do to make the pain stop. His vision is suddenly eclipsed. It goes black and fuzzy around the edges and no matter how much he struggles to breathe, he cannot draw enough air into his lungs. His fingers dig at the laces of his tunic, cursing as he yanks them open. Adrenaline colors his face and chest an ugly puce, and he is too far panicked to realize that his nails have left angry red scratches and welts across his chest as he struggled with the laces.

He's having a panic attack, and doesn't have the wherewithal to understand that that is what is happening to him. He just knows that he feels hot, flushed, and heavy. As if everything is crashing down around him and he can't handle it. He collapses onto the edge of his unmade bed, his hands gripping his knees so hard that it hurts. He will have bruises tomorrow. But he doesn't care. All he can focus on, is the pain. The need for it to be -over-. The need to feel normal and balanced once more.

"Merlin .." He whimpers the other man's name. Has no clue why! He just does it. After a moment, the whimper gives way to near hysteric laughter. Is he breaking down? Has he reached the end of his tether? Because, of course, it would be Merlin that drove him 'round the bloody bend, wouldn't it! And that's not even a question. It's a pointed statement rattling around in his mind as he sits on the edge of his disheveled bed laughing like a mad idiot. His hands lift, thrusting into his blond tresses, twisting and tugging at the strands until it hurts.

"What have I done?" His hysterics finally begin to die down, and he finds that he has enough sense of mind left to feel like a complete idiot. And to be rather grateful that his friend wasn't here to see his break down. Or anyone else, for that matter. This is the kind of weakness that would be punished by his Father. A Pendragon does not cry, let alone breakdown in such a spectacular manner. He levers himself off of his bed, wincing in pain. He had been sitting there laughing longer than he thought. His back, neck, and legs ache from the awkward angle. He strolls to his basin and splashes water on his face, the cold hitting him like a ton of bricks the moment that he's more aware.

He sucks in an icy breath and a brand new wave of worry burns through him. All practicality and duty aside, where the hell is Merlin!? No one he had asked had seen the young man. He assumes that the manservant is avoiding him, but what has is he using to keep himself busy? Because even Merlin isn't the type to simply stay in his chambers laying about when he doesn't want to see the Prince. He exhales softly, dries his features off, and turns to head out of his room. It's time he pay Gaius a visit, it seems!

hr

He can do this. He's the Prince of Camelot, for fuck's sake! He snarls these words in his mind as he stands on the stairs that wind up toward Gaius' chambers. About halfway between the door leading into the Court Physician's rooms, and the archway that would let him run away. For all that he's worth. Why should he be so scared to potentially face Merlin? This is all -Merlin's- fault, after all! He's the one that can't learn his place! That can't watch his smart mouth and address his Prince with respect. Merlin is the idiot. The fool. God, and you wouldn't have it any other way, would you? No, of course not.

He feels another wave of that blasted, inappropriate laughter welling up inside of him, and he shoves his fist against his mouth to keep it from bubbling over. Once he has managed to regain his composure, he forces himself to continue to ascend the stairs leading to Gaius' rooms. He will not chicken out. He will face this mess head on and do his best to make it better.

"Gaius?" He calls out, shoving the door open without bothering to knock. A habit he really needs to rectify. He had been doing better at respecting other people's privacy, but at the moment, he just doesn't care. He's not thinking clearly. The verbal lashings at servants and the creepy laughter kind of proves that. He draws up short when he sees Gaius look up from his prep table. The scents of flora and spice causing the Prince's nose to wrinkle involuntarily.

"Ah, Sire. I did not expect to see you this day. How may I help you?" The older man gives one of his patented 'Grandfather Gaius' grins, which seem to be so few and far between, and Arthur feels himself relaxing. Good. This is good. There's no way Merlin could have gone off and done something foolish if Gaius is in such a good mood. He can breathe a bit easier.

"No, I don't see that you would be expecting me, Gauis. I'm not here for anything official. I was .. I was wondering where Merlin is." He sighs softly, unable to stop that traitorous sound from escaping his lips. And, of course, the sound coupled with the inquiry about the wayward manservant is enough to wipe away the GGG, and bring out the quirked eyebrow of doom. Honestly, Arthur has contemplated appointing Gauis to the council once he is King. The moment the old man quirked his brow at a visiting dignitary, they would fold like an old shirt and Camelot would reign supreme. Even King Uther had a way of falling to bits under that intense eyebrow stare.

"Ah. I assume you and he had another row, Sire." When he realizes that Arthur is getting ready to interrupt, his hand snaps up into a 'silence' gesture. He straightens behind his bottles of tinctures and salves, a frown tugging at his lips. "Arthur, I am rather disappointed in you. I know Merlin is not the type of servant you are used to, but is that truly such a bad thing? He has lasted far longer than any of the others, and you have warmed to him like no other. Yes, I agree that he is not as good at his duties as one born to the position, but he deserves more than this from you. Merlin .. is strong, and brave. He has done more for you and Camelot than you can ever know." Yeah, each new reproving word is like a barb to his heart. That strange, heavy feeling in his heart increases tenfold, leaving him feeling even more frayed.

"I .. I know, Gaius. Merlin .. is an idiot, but ... he's also my friend." Oh god! His hand flies to his mouth, pressing against it until his knuckles are nearly white. Struggling to keep himself from saying anything else. The F word, Friend in this case, is a dangerous weapon that could be used against him. And yet, Gaius merely drops the brow and softens toward the Prince. He walks out from behind his table and moves to lay a hand lightly on the Prince's shoulder.

"It warms me to finally hear you admit so, Arthur. Merlin does not have much in this world, but your friendship has meant so much to him." Arthur feels the beginnings of a blush creeping up his neck toward his cheeks, so he does the only thing he can do. He quickly pulls away from the older man, stumbling toward the closed door that leads to Merlin's bedroom. "Oh, you won't find him in there, Sire." Gaius points out as he moves back behind the table. Arthur stops immediately, a frown marring his handsome features as he turns slowly to face the older man.

"Oh. Is he making deliveries for you, around the Castle? Because every one I've talked to, said they haven't seen him." He ignores the sudden gnawing ache of fear in the pit of his gut. Which is never good. He learned a long time ago that it can be fatal to ignore his instincts. Gaius leans over his table for a moment, fishing a piece of parchment out from under a group of bottles, waving it absently through the air.

"No, Sire. I don't have any deliveries for today. No, he left me a note saying that he was going to go out and pick some herbs. My stores are in need of replenishing." He tosses the parchment back to the table in favor of picking up a bottle with a dark green powder in it. Arthur feels himself pale as he fights down a shudder. That gnawing feeling becomes a gaping maw of concern and horror, which he is battling to tamp down.

"No .. nonono! Gaius, there have been bandits roaming the woods, closer to Camelot than they have been in years. And you know that idiot is a magnet for trouble!" He growls the words out, scrubbing his hand down his face, frowning darkly. Oh, he will kill any bandit that has come close to his friend! "How long ago did he leave, Gaius? And do you have any idea what area of the woods he would've gone to?"

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"Stupid bloody Princes and their posh, arsehole ways!" Merlin mutters angrily as he stomps through the forest. He had considered taking the horse that Arthur often let him used, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Because, with his luck, Arthur would find out and have him put into the stocks as a cover for punishing him for never showing up to do his chores today. One never knows what a Prat Prince will do as far as petty stupidity goes, after all.

His morning has been a passionate tango of emotion rolling back and forth across the spectrum of feelings. Anger, despair, happiness, each emotion felt in the very depths of his being. Leaving him feeling exhausted and drained. But he powers on. Between moments of spewing obscenities at Arthur, and fighting to keep himself together, he actually has moments where he lapses into blissful silence and allows himself to enjoy the beauty of nature all around him as he roots through fallen leaves and damp vegetation to gather what he needs. Once he has enough of each kind, they are wrapped in cloth and carefully eased into his pouch.

He groans as he carefully stands from the rather large, jutting roots he has been picking around. His back is sore, causing him to stoop slightly. His fingers are covered in green stains, dirty under his fingernails, and his arms ache all the way to the elbows. With a soft curse, he pushes himself toward one of the roots and opens the pouch. He had consumed half the rations to break his fast, and with a glance into the sky, he realizes that it has reached the midday mark. So, he pulls out one of the apples he had been saving, a dopey grin splitting his boyish features with happiness as he lightly polishes the bright red skin against the soft fabric of his tunic.

The first bite is always the best! The feel of your teeth puncturing the waxy skin. The burst of juice as your teeth cut into the flesh. It's sweet and earthy as it drips across your tongue. And the first hunk you manage to rip free? It's ambrosia. Food of the -Gods-! He savors the mouth full of juice and flesh, sighing happily before he finally forces himself to chew and swallow. A shiver of pleasure trips down his spine. Every bite from here on out will be enjoyable, but nowhere near as good as that first one.

"Look it 'ere, boys! We wound us a posh one!" The words cut through Merlin's thoughts, his hand tightening around the apple as he silently curses himself. He usually has far better situational awareness than this! He forces himself to remain as relaxed as he can as he takes another bite of the apple. Scanning the area around the root he's settled on. He counts five. Three in front of him, two flanked at his back. Ugh. He is not in the mood for this crap, not to mention he still isn't sure what state his magic is in at the moment.

"Posh? Me? Won't my Master be pleased to hear that?" He drawls the words out with a tone of utter disgust, surprising even himself! When had he managed to throw all caution and sense of self preservation to the wind, that he would -taunt- a group of bandits, with nothing more than his magic and a bloody dagger at his disposal!?

"Ohh, got yerself a master, do ye, pretty boy?" The leader practically purrs the words, and Merlin feels something deep inside him twist and snap. Yeah, see, those are definitely the wrong words to say to him right now. When he can still feel the bruises and aches through his body because of people finding him pretty the night before.

"Right, then. Lets get this over with, show we?" He snarls the words and without telegraphing the move, he throws the apple at the leader, causing him to throw his hands up in front of his face to protect it from the flying object. Merlin used the momentary distraction to grab out his dagger, shoving it into the man's heart. At the same time, he slides the bandit's sword out into his hand and dances backward to keep the other two from slicing him to bits. He pivots on his feet to throw up his hand. The two that had been closing on his flank scream in pain as they fly through the air. Hitting the ground with a terrible, sickening thud. Merlin puts his sense of self-loathing and disgust out of his mind as he turns, shoving the sword into the air to avoid the coming downswing of one of the two remaining bandits.

"NOW!" One of them screams, voice shrill and utterly terrified as Merlin stumbles back, away from the two. He can feel dread eating away at his guts as he hears the terror-inducing sound of boots approaching. At least four more appear, swords drawn, blood thirsty looks on their ugly faces. He inhales deeply. Fuck! For the first time, in a long time, he finds that he is actually completely and utterly scared out of his mind. For what seems like the first time ever .. he is actually pretty sure he's about to die. For real this time. He can feel himself beginning to shake. True terror filling his limbs as he tries to look everywhere at once. Struggles to get an eye on every possible threat.

Which is why he can be forgiven for not immediately hearing the sound of pounding hoof beats as the first of the reinforcements engages him. He blocks two furious powerful swings, throwing himself into his attacker to knock him to the ground. He forces himself to detach from his actions, so that when he drives his sword through his attacker's gut, he doesn't immediately breakdown. Instead, he launches himself to his feet and stumbles back from the advancing bandits.

"Merlin!?" Arthur's voice is definitely a welcome sound, though he can't bring himself to actually look toward the Prince. Too many variables for things to fall apart and go wrong. Which is why he misses the look of surprise, confusion, and betrayal on his friend's face. Arthur had watched as Merlin killed the bandit. It wasn't the best swordwork he had ever seen, not by far, but it was good enough that had Merlin been a Noble, he'd walk away from this with a Knighthood. But this is -MERLIN-! How the hell is he managing to hold a single bandit off, let alone be responsible for the fallen bodies through out the clearing!?

Right. Now isn't the time to stop and wonder. Because there are bandits, and half of them are now trained on his as well. He rips his sword to a ready position and runs headlong into the fight. It's not long before the sounds of clashing steel, grunting bodies, and swords hitting armor fills the clearing. The symphony of a battle raging on until it reaches completion.

Arthur fells his last opponent in just enough time to look up ... and scream. He watches in horror as the final bandit thrusts his sword forward, toward Merlin's stomach. The younger man stumbles back, his hand flying to his stomach, even as his hand tightens on his sword. Before the bandit has time to properly celebrate what he thinks is his victory, Merlin grunts and lunges. The sword slides through the bandit's heart with a surprising easy, before Merlin lets go as the body falls. Arthur finds himself rooted to the spot for the moment. Staring, dumbstruck, at his friend. Who has managed to do something Arthur cannot even fathom. Defend himself so well. There are physical, dead bodies as a testament to the fact that Merlin is, somehow, capable. It is almost too much for the Prince to process.

Because it seems .. it almost seems as if time is moving in slow motion. His brain is having such a hard time catching up to what has just happened, that he feels sluggish. Slow. He hates it. And yet, that feeling is no worse than when time finally speeds back up to it's proper level and he finds that he's now trying not to PANIC! Because he knows what he saw. Merlin. Stabbed.

"MERLIN!?" His teeth gnash the name with a deep growl as he drops his sword and runs toward his friend/manservant. He nearly collides with the younger man in his desperate need to ensure that he's okay. His arms crash around the slighter form, lowering Merlin to a sitting position on the ground as he kneels next to him. He yanks the edge of Merlin's fancy shirt up, taking a deep breath. Desperately afraid of what he is going to see. His hand is trembling as his fingers twine in the lush fabric. He sucks in a breath, and then immediately lets it out in a surprised puff. Merlin has barely been scratched. There is a hole in the shirt, a ragged tear, and there is blood marring his perfect, pale flesh, but it's barely a scratch.

"Holy hell, Merin." He feels a hysterical giggle bubbling again, and he barely manages to swallow it down as his gloved hand moves to rest on Merlin's stomach. "You're damn lucky. He barely grazed you. I thought .. fuck, I thought he'd skewered you." He trembles for a moment, shoving his hand into his mouth so that his teeth can dig into the leather of his glove, yanking it off violently. In the next moment, his bare hand is resting on Merlin's exposed stomach again. Skin to skin, this time. It fills him with an undeniable wave of relief to feel that Merlin is warm, breathing .. alive.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Sire, but I am still very much alive." Merlin snaps angrily, shoving backward to take himself out from beneath Arthur's touch. He pushes himself carefully to his feet and moves to the bandit leader. He leans down carefully, wincing in pain as the shallow wound pulls and pinches. He grabs the hilt of the dagger and carefully wrenches it from the dead man's heart. Arthur frowns darkly, still kneeling on the ground.

"What, stealing from the dead now, Merlin!?" Of course, the only way Arthur knows how to deal with Merlin's absurd words, is through hostility. The manservant straightens carefully, running the edge of the blade across his hip carefully to clean the blood out, before sliding it into his belt.

"No, Sire. Reclaiming what is mine. It .. it was a gift, from Lancelot. He bought it for me the day before he left." He grits the words out between clenched teeth, his hand falling to the hilt of the dagger for a moment, before he turns to look at the Prince with disdain. "But, cheers. So good to know you think I would rob from the dead." He sneers at the Prince before he reaches into the pouch to begin going through the herbs he had gathered. "And no, before you ask .. I didn't steal the damn clothes, either." He grunts, carefully withdrawing what he needs, frowning. "They were a gift. I thought they would be fine, because of the cold. Apparently, it was a bad idea to wear them outside of the city." He walks to the tree stump, still frowning.

Arthur finally manages to push himself to his feet, scowling at the other man.

"Who in their right mind would give you a gift like that tunic?" He scoffs the words, doing his best not to say what he really wants to. Because what he really wants to do, is demand that Merlin tell him why the mysterious commoner turned knight reduced back to commoner had gifted Merlin with a dagger after just meeting the man. Even as the words exited his mouth, Arthur knew they were wrong. Bad. That he was being a defensive idiot, but he will not take them back. No matter how much he knows he should want to.

"Wh - rea - did you - " Merlin struggles to string together a passable sentence, but he can't bring himself to do so. His brain may have actually just -died- with the struggle to understand what Arthur had just said. Because that, on top of the implication that no one in the castle should find Merlin attractive, and the remark about stealing from the dead .. that is far too much for him to handle! He snaps his pack shut, no longer giving a damn about seeing to his injuries. No, even if the wound had been deep, he'd let himself bleed to death, he's so pissed off.

"That is -it-!" Merlin snarls the words as he advances on the Prince. Arthur doesn't have time to react before the younger man has thrown a rather competent right hook into his jaw. So competent, in fact, Arthur stumbles back and falls flat on his arse. "You arrogant, idiotic, heartless little prick! I get it, okay! I get it. I am lower than the scum of the fucking earth to you, Arthur Pendragon. So, why don't you just leave me alone? Why did you have to come out here if all you wanted to do was insult me more!?" He virtually screams the last sentence, feeling the last vestibules of his sanity trying to shatter once and for all.

Arthur, meanwhile, is staring up at his manservant from his position on the ground where he is gripping his jaw, utterly lost and confused. Yeah, he knows that what he said was a bit not good, but to actually strike him!? Forget the stocks, Arthur would be within his right, under the laws of Camelot, to have Merlin -killed- for daring such a thing. And yet, that thought doesn't actually cross the Prince's mind. Even a day before he had met Merlin, he wouldn't have hesitated to do just that to any servant stupid enough to lay a hand on him. But now? All he can do is struggle to understand just how far he must have pushed Merlin to cause the gentle man to take such action. Not to mention, trying to understand why his words continue to imply Merlin is so fucking worthless in every way. Because as much as he likes to joke to Merlin about his incompetence as a servant, he really doesn't view him that way. At all.

"If you must know, Sire, it was Gwen that gave me the clothes. She gifted them to me a few weeks ago. Apparently, they cost a fair bit of her savings. She said the color would bring out my eyes." Despite how angry he is with Arthur at the moment, his words hold no emotions whatsoever. In fact, the only inflection is on the words must, and Sire, and yet, it is nothing more than a change in tone and pitch. No emotion behind either word.

Those words, about Gwen spending hard earned wages when she has so little, coupled with the fact that she had acknowledged that Merlin is attractive ... it causes that beast buried in his belly to flex it's claws and roar with feral anger. And yet, all he can do outwardly, is grit his teeth and try not to think about it. Make damn sure he doesn't say something .. possessive and idiotic. He has already screwed this up enough.

"And now, they are soaked in blood and cut up. I will have to do my best to repair them, and hope that she doesn't know her gift was in vain." He sighs, the anger and fight suddenly drained from him. His hand, which only now he realizes is shaking, presses against his side as he winces. He had forgotten he was injured until he brought it up again. "Why, Arthur?" He finds himself pathetically questioning, no longer having the energy to censure himself against questions he knows he -really- doesn't want the answers to. Because either way, no matter if the answer is good or ill, it will change every thing between them. He really doesn't want things to change anymore. Because, as far as he can tell, it's already all wrecked. Further change will surely mean a cessation of some kind, and he doesn't think his damaged heart can take that.

"WHY do you think so poorly of me? If you .. if you hate me so much, or truly think I am as much of a screw up as you say .. if you are honestly -surprised- that anyone would show me interest of any kind, why am I your bloody manservant? Do you enjoy torturing me that damn much!?" Merlin can feel the beginning of tears pricking hotly at his eyes, and he fears that he has never hated himself so much. He feels weak, pathetic and useless. His hand shoots up, the pads of his thumb and forefinger thrusting into his closed eyes, trying to rub the tears away. Not an effective action, but one he cannot help taking. Because he is always so naive and feeble as to hold out hope in the most hopeless things.

"You know what? Just never mind, Sire. I .. I'm too tired for this. Just .. I can't do this anymore, Arthur." The Prince's name is barely a whisper, but it's just loud enough for Arthur to hear the defeat and exhaustion. It's almost more than he can take. He fights against his nature, fights to break free of the shackles of Princely propriety. The same shackles that won't allow him to admit out loud that Merlin is his best friend or that he doesn't view all magic as evil. "Take this back to Gauis." He yanks the bag open, pulling the wrapped herbs out and setting them on the root he had been sitting on later. "Good bye, Prince Pendragon." He murmurs, his voice gone completely flat, and yet, for the first time -EVER- in his association, it is also completely formal. And that, that is the straw that snaps Arthur into action.

"NO!" The word is not yelled, snarled, or even yelped. It comes out of him in a high pitched, broken squeak that stops Merlin in his tracks as he had been walking away from the older man. His shoulders are straight and taut, but also shaking slightly as he fights blood loss and emotion. "You can't go back to Ealdor, Merlin. I -forbid- it." Because, of course, the idiot would try to pull Royal rank, rather than ask his friend to stay, or in any way, admit to having emotion.

"FORBID me!?" It is Merlin's turn to give a bestial snarl as he spins upon his heels and glares daggers across the gulf that separates them. "You cannot -forbid- me from going back home, if that is what I so choose, Prince Pendragon." He sneers the Prince's name, his unsoiled hand clasped into a white knuckled fist at his side as he stares at the older man. Daring him to say otherwise.

"That is where you are wrong, Merlin. You said it yourself. I am PRINCE Arthur Pendragon. I can damn well forbid you. I will lock you in the fucking dungeons if I must!" He sneers and snarls the words at the manservant. Outwardly, he's every bit the prickish Prat he has been accused of. Inwardly, he hasn't the first clue why he's acting the way he is. He feels ... god, he feels almost as if he doesn't have an ounce of control over himself. He doesn't feel as if he's even in his own body!

"No. You. Can't." Merlin carefully, deeply enunciates each word. Making sure that there is no argument as to what he is saying. "Yes, you are the Prince of Camelot. But guess what? Even Uther can't force me to stay in Camelot if I don't want to, Sire. Because I have broken no law, have done -nothing- to earn being thrown into the dungeons, and if you make something up ... then you don't deserve the Crown you're going to inherit some day. Because I am a -servant-, not a slave." He spits the word slave out with hatred. Because that is exactly what he feels like these days. Like Arthur's slave, rather than his manservant or friend. Hell, he's beginning to wonder if the bond of friendship is something his haggard mind invented as a means to cope with the way he is treated. It would certainly fit, wouldn't it? If it is nothing more than a construct of his own creation. Because Arthur sure as hell doesn't treat him like a friend, never has. Probably never will.

"I .. but ... " Arthur is floundering. Words come in disjointed murmurs, his eyes flickering across the area. Landing every where but on Merlin. The one that deserves his attention, and he can't bring himself to look at him. iCoward/i, his brain supplies the descriptive word with vehement anger and disgust, and he can't bring himself to argue with the word. He is every bit a coward, and it would serve him right if Merlin did decide to leave.

"Why, Arthur? You owe me that much, Sire. After all your jokes, jabs, and insults .. why are you so hellbent on me -staying-. Is it because you can't stand the thought of your big ego being trampled by the thought of a servant getting away? I mean, what would the Nobles say? Poor Prince Arthur has to force his manservant to stay, by locking him in the fucking dungeon." Merlin continues to sneer, and the Prince finds that he has never wanted to punch the man more than he does now. Not even the day they met! "Because I doubt it has actually has a damn thing to do with -me-! You heartless, emotionless prick! You damn pr-prat .." Merlin whimpers. It's a terrible gutwrenching sound as his hand presses harder to the side of his body. He sways where he stands, eyes going distant and a big clouded, and in for a split second, Arthur thinks his own heart is going to cease beating. Because all the color drains from Merlin's already pale features, leaving a sickly pallor behind that looks ... fuck, it looks too close to death!

"MERLIN!" He yells the name at the top of his lungs as he lunges forward. Barely managing to grab Merlin and hold him close as the younger man crashes toward the Earth. His eyes roll up, into his skull, and Arthur stops breathing. "No. NO! NONONONO! You can't die, Merlin. I do -not- give you permission to die, damn it!" Unable to think clearly, unable to divine a single beneficial action to take, he starts to shake the younger man uselessly. "Please, Merlin. Please. You can't die. You just can't. Don't leave me, you idiot." He sniffles softly, grits his teeth, and lifts Merlin's body from the ground. Turning, stumbling, carrying his friend toward the horse he had rode here on.

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The story shall conclude in the last part of the trilogy!


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